Mara took a sip of freshly squeezed juice, surveying her surroundings with the indifferent gaze of a noble lady from some remote world. Such individuals always act as though everyone owes them something, oblivious to the fact that, in the grand scheme of the galaxy, most sentients care little for their status, lineage, or worldview.
The galaxy has entirely different elites.
Not that this small diner at a waystation was teeming with such elites. Just small-time players, nothing more.
For this very reason, Mara made every effort to display her disdain for them. A subtle calculation—petty traders despise upstarts. But they adore credits. Doubly so when they can charge exorbitant sums for services rendered to such clients.
If she had behaved like an ordinary person who had come to Vohai merely to procure black-market parts for Imperial starships, no one would have paid her any mind. They would have been too wary to deal with someone casually inquiring about such highly specific components.
— Excuse me, my lady, — a voice sounded nearby. Mara effortlessly adopted an expression that could only be described as: "I'm doing you a great favor by even glancing your way and breathing the same air as you." Only then did she turn her attention to the Togruta standing beside her, clad in a light veil that concealed the woman's figure and body, save for a small area around her eyes. As befitting an alien servant in the employ of a human in humanocentric worlds. — I beg your pardon, but I couldn't find a seller for the parts you requested.
— Fool, — Mara's dismissive tone toward the Togruta required little effort to feign. A touch of realism was enough. — You can't be trusted with anything.
— My lady, I tried! — To Mara's surprise, Ahsoka masterfully mimicked subservience. A mental note: this woman was not only a former Jedi, a crusader against crime for all that is good and against all that is bad, but also a remarkable actress. — It's not my fault we were deceived, and no one trades those parts…
Through the Force's subtle cues, the red-haired young woman sensed that their conversation had caught the attention of the very individual their performance was meant for. He was seated at the next table.
A massive Herglic male was a black-market trader in Imperial parts. He served as a middleman for representatives of some of the galaxy's largest shipbuilders, including Kuat Drive Yards, Fondor, the Corellian Engineering Corporation, and others. When shipyard managers knew someone in Imperial space needed rare parts for their starships, they ensured potential buyers learned of this sentient. The sooner, the better.
Unlike the Empire, the New Republic exerted little control over arms trafficking—at least until recently. The cold-blooded annihilation of the New Republic's Fourth Military Fleet by the Grand Admiral, broadcast across the HoloNet, had stirred the Republic's military, security agents, and other risk-averse types. They were, of course, aware of black-market traders. They knew of the lack of control over arms circulation in their young state. Yet, traditionally, they couldn't eradicate the problem—at least not quickly.
This was precisely why the New Republic had recently intensified covert surveillance of those who might supply parts to Imperials. Everyone understood that the Imperials lacked sufficient manufacturing complexes to maintain their ships' technical condition. Thus, there was a high likelihood that, through intelligence or lingering agents of influence from the days of galactic domination, the Imperial Remnants would seek to acquire what they needed through "gray" channels.
This monstrous sentient was one such participant in those channels. A seasoned dealer who never missed a profit but wouldn't risk his hide either. He had been observing Mara and Ahsoka for a couple of local days, hesitant to approach a potential client directly. He preferred to verify their identification data and ensure they weren't trouble.
Judging by his approach toward them, his information network was clearly well-established.
— Hau-u-um… Esteemed lady, — the Herglic addressed them in a low, guttural voice. — I beg your pardon; I had no intention of eavesdropping, but you were speaking so loudly… Hau-u-um…
Mara, maintaining her mask of haughtiness, appraised the sentient who approached her with the gaze of a true aristocrat.
Herglics were large bipeds, likely descended from equally large aquatic mammals. Their height often exceeded two meters. Though evolution had replaced fins and flippers with arms and legs, they still breathed through a blowhole on the top of their heads. Their smooth, glossy skin, a remnant of their aquatic past, often dried out under sunlight. Thus, Herglics preferred shade and humid climates. This black-market trader had chosen to meet clients in a diner at the Sensino monorail station, where climate control was tailored for reptiles and amphibians.
The "hau-u-um" sound accompanying the Herglic's speech was nothing more than him clearing his blowhole, a common Herglic expression in the Tapani sector, used with an accent to preface important remarks. Mara knew this well, having often encountered Herglics as bodyguards for Tapani sector aristocrats.
Herglics are said to be wider than they are tall, and this was undeniably true. They were highly sensitive and easily offended by remarks or jests about their size—not because these large beings were secretly melancholic or easily swayed, but because Herglics were exceptional bodyguards and fighters, capable of tearing their foes apart with their bare hands.
Their discomfort with their size stemmed from purely pragmatic concerns. Most other sentient species in the galaxy were smaller, and since the primary rule of construction was to avoid making corridors, doors, windows, or turbolift shafts larger than necessary for the majority, Herglics often felt awkward and out of place when removed from their communities or ships. They frequently couldn't fit where they wanted to go. Even this trader had used the cargo ramp rather than the main entrance to enter the diner, simply because it was the only way he could squeeze through.
His bulky frame meant he occupied two seats in the diner, and most doorways required some maneuvering. Despite this, Herglics were generally good-natured, fond of meeting new people and visiting exotic locales. Usually. Unless they were involved in criminal activities, like this "character."
The Herglic explains to a Rodian that he wandered into the wrong district (Rodian brick factory in operation)
— Very well, — Mara said, wrinkling her nose slightly. — And how exactly can you assist us?
— Hau-u-um… — The Herglic cleared his blowhole. — As it happens, I have access to certain resources… Hau-u-um… May I be of service, esteemed lady? I'm certain that a distinguished and busy young woman, undoubtedly playing a significant role in the affairs of her aristocratic House, has grown weary of these inept traders who cannot meet your demands.
— Indeed, — Mara clicked her tongue. — This is not what I was led to expect. I was told this planet was the best source for Imperial parts. But she, — Mara jabbed a finger at her "servant," — is too foolish to arrange supplies. And she's certainly incapable of negotiating. I have no desire to traipse through shops myself…
— Hau-u-um… Oh, you should not have to handle such mundane tasks yourself, — the Herglic said. — Allow me to offer my services. If the esteemed lady would honor me by visiting my shop, I assure you, you will leave thoroughly satisfied and return again.
— I doubt there's anything here that interests me, — Mara continued to feign petulance. — The ship I need parts for… is quite specific.
The trader's courtesies were nothing more than the natural politeness that disarmed even the most stubborn buyers. Mara's Imperial instructors had taught her that Herglics excelled at two things above all others in the galaxy. An agent had to understand the mindset, culture, strengths, and weaknesses of those they worked with. Brute force or cunning weren't always the answer—especially when dealing with a Herglic.
Herglics were born explorers and traders. In the early days of the Galactic Republic, their blocky freighters became a common sight across the galaxy, though contact with the Republic remained minimal. Their curious yet pragmatic nature and calm demeanor made them valued members of the galactic community. The Herglic Trade Empire joined the Galactic Republic over thirteen thousand years ago, and Herglic hyperspace scouts played a key role in establishing the Rimma Trade Route over five and a half thousand years ago. Palpatine had once told her that Herglics were friendly with the Jedi, facilitating the import and export of goods to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant.
With the rise of the Galactic Empire, Herglic manufacturing and trade enterprises were among the first nationalized by the Emperor's New Order. Typically docile, the Herglics resisted their oppressors, but after significant bloodshed and realizing their resistance was futile, they pragmatically submitted to the Emperor's will. Fortunately, they surrendered before their millennia-old infrastructure was destroyed. Many even acquired noble titles—not in the Empire, but in the Tapani sector, where one noble house traded aristocratic titles to those who could afford them. The Empire turned a blind eye to such "indulgences," as Tapani aristocrats were staunch supporters of Palpatine. Until a certain point, of course. The New Republic, on the other hand, couldn't care less.
— Hau-u-um… But it's of Imperial design, isn't it? — the trader inquired.
— The very finest, — Mara said, adopting an air of mystery and smug satisfaction. An experienced black-market trader was something of a psychologist, and he undoubtedly noticed. The emotions Mara openly displayed were meant to convince him she was deeply attached to the vessel in question. This, in turn, would signal to the trader that he could make a hefty profit by enticing this wealthy client to spend generously. Nothing brought traders more profit than satisfying the whims of shortsighted, affluent clients obsessed with their toys. — A very large and powerful ship. It requires many parts…
— Hau-u-um… — The Herglic's eyes gleamed with anticipation of profit. — In that case, I believe we should continue this discussion in my office. Such matters are best not discussed even in such a cozy setting.
— Very well, — Mara snapped her fingers. Ahsoka, maintaining her role as a servant, took a step closer but froze, attuned to her senses.
She didn't see them, but she felt suspicion rippling through the Force. Its source was a pair of humans, dressed in plain clothes to blend in with the crowd, but their military bearing, focused mindset, and aura of threat betrayed them. Such traits were not typical of ordinary shoppers. Imperials had come to meet the black-market trader. They desperately wanted to blend in and not appear as what they were.
Their intent was clear—they hadn't come to dine. Both radiated suspicion directed at the Herglic, who noticed them and froze, torn between swindling a wealthy client or continuing business with long-time partners. Mara was certain the latter weren't as lucrative as she appeared to be.
Still, she needed to confirm whether these were the individuals she was after.
Her mission to track Imperial buyers had grown into something more. Mara understood that the Imperials weren't procuring parts for no reason. These were highly specialized, categorized goods, not available through regular channels. Hence the need for a middleman of this caliber.
It was possible these Imperials weren't connected to her target. After all, the galaxy had many ships of this type, and the fate of several remained unknown. But Grand Moff Kaine had his own reliable connections with Kuat Drive Yards and didn't need such shady schemes. The New Republic also had its own super star destroyer and could openly acquire parts for its restoration.
The possibility that these traders were after something unrelated to her mission existed. It needed to be verified—perhaps by boarding their ship and digging into its registry data and navicomputer coordinates.
Whether the buyers hailed from the Guardian or another super star destroyer of the Executor-class presumed lost didn't matter. It was Imperial property, and the Grand Admiral demanded its return.
— Return to our quarters, — Mara ordered Ahsoka, casting a haughty glance toward the entrance. The pair of Imperials lingered, unsure of what to do. Professional spies wouldn't act this way. A professional would have claimed a vacant table, pretending to be there only for a meal, seeking a chance to contact the trader. These were either amateurs or merely crew members. Mara bet on the latter. — I'll take a walk with the gentleman trader. If his stock of parts is as vast as his vocabulary, I'll let you know to hire ships for transport.
— Yes, my lady, — Ahsoka gave a respectful bow to her "mistress" and shuffled toward the exit. As she passed the Imperials, the Togruta stumbled and fell against one of them. Caught off guard, the Imperial shoved her away with an animalistic hiss… toward the second. Falling against him, Ahsoka babbled apologies, projecting the image of a clumsy, inept servant.
— Get lost! — one of the Imperials barked. Ahsoka apologized again and left the diner. Mara locked eyes with the second Imperial, who tensed, realizing it was improper to touch, let alone push, someone else's servant. In some systems, such an act could cost a hand—or a head, depending on the executioner's mood. — My lady, I apologize, she just…
— You should've slapped that clumsy slave, — Mara sneered. — She can't do anything right. Well, — she turned to the Herglic, — shall we go?
— Hau-u-um… — He tore his gaze from the Imperials and looked at Mara, awaiting his response. — Yes, yes, of course… This way, please, — he gestured gallantly toward the exit, likely because squeezing through the main doors would take time, and he didn't want his client waiting while he maneuvered his bulk.
Mara strode gracefully toward the exit. At the transparisteel doors, she called on the Force to sharpen her hearing…
— Hau-u-um… Loading Zone Seven, — the Herglic whispered (remarkable that they could manage that). — Hau-u-um… Engine parts, deflector shields, turbolasers, everything you requested.
— Good, — replied the Imperial Mara had been speaking with. — Get rid of the client as quickly as possible.
Mara exited the diner and swiftly retrieved her comlink from her clutch.
"Loading Zone Seven," — she quickly relayed the location to Ahsoka, where she needed to go while Mara built rapport with the shadowy trader. Parts were never superfluous, especially for a super star destroyer. Regardless of which ship these Imperials led her to, it undoubtedly needed repairs. — "Check it out. Take images of the engine part markings."
Such equipment for Executor-class ships was markedly different from standard Imperial fleet components.
"Why did I bother stealing their shuttle access keys?" — Ahsoka's question was likely rhetorical, but it confirmed the woman with lightsabers was no longer the noble Jedi the New Republic idealized.
"Plant a tracker and check the navicomputer," — Mara advised, stowing the comlink in her clutch. As the screen went dark, the device's automatic data purge erased all traces of her contacts.
— Hau-u-um… — The Herglic finally navigated the entrance and approached his potential client. — My apologies for the delay, esteemed lady…
— It's fine, — Mara smiled. — I made good use of the time. So, where is this office of yours?
***
— You will be free, — said the Noghri, his black fur blending almost seamlessly with the dim interior of the hydroelectric station, where the "honored guests" had been staying for the past few days.
Shteben, rising from the cot graciously provided by the facility's hosts on Yalara, stretched to loosen up.
The scout sat on the cot, legs dangling, and looked at the commander of the death commando unit, who had overseen this facility of interest to Grand Admiral Thrawn for years.
— So, I take it you've contacted the Noghri overclan leadership? — he clarified.
— Yes, — the commander replied curtly. — Much time has passed. Many talks held. Decision made.
— No surprise there, — Shteben grabbed his shirt from the headboard, slipped it over his torso, and began to tidy himself. — I hope you didn't risk contacting them directly from Yalara?
— We are not the children you brought with you, — the Noghri mewled. — We are cautious.
— Fair enough, — the scout chuckled, adjusting his attire. — So, what's your decision, commander?
They had talked at length upon arriving on Yalara.
One might even say at great length.
They shared the latest news with the Noghri, isolated here for years. They explained galactic events, the situation on Honoghr, and the legitimacy of the Grand Admiral's orders.
And they asked questions in return.
The death commandos on this planet had been cut off from the galaxy for nearly a decade. Darth Vader had sent them to seize Yalara shortly after the destruction of the first Death Star in the Battle of Yavin IV. Why the Sith Lord needed a hidden planet, undetectable by sensors or other means, he hadn't disclosed to his Noghri. Not their concern.
It wasn't hard to guess, though.
After Luke Skywalker destroyed Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin's superweapon, the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Forces tasked nearly every agent in the Empire with hunting rebel leaders—especially those responsible for the superweapon's destruction. The faces of Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan, a Wookiee named Chewbacca, and a few others dominated operational briefings. "Wanted by the Empire…"
It had been a messy affair with near-zero results. But that was irrelevant now.
Darth Vader clearly intended to create another secret refuge, unknown even to the Emperor. What better place than a planet so remote it wasn't even mentioned in galactic adventurers' catalogs?
With such a cloaking system, one could build an empire here. Though it would require effort—mineral reserves were scarce, as the Noghri had discovered during their time here. Useful resources were equally limited. The only viable building material was the local stone, used to construct the dam powering the cloaking device.
Which, incidentally, wasn't without its issues.
For starters, a hydroelectric station couldn't sustain such a mechanism indefinitely. Massive energy accumulators in the dam's depths charged over long periods. Only then could the device be activated. Its operational duration depended entirely on the capacitors' charge.
The system likely once operated far longer than the week the Noghri could manage five years ago. Much of the equipment had fallen into disrepair, with no maintenance, technical inspections, or replacement of worn parts from prolonged use.
The local inhabitants, whom the Noghri had exterminated per Vader's orders, lacked technical knowledge and hadn't even reached the stage of metalworking. It was clear as a Tatooine day that the facility was built by sentients with far more advanced technical skills. Markings on tools and parts suggested it dated back to the Old Republic, perhaps tens or thousands of years ago. The hydroelectric station's technology was archaic yet remarkably well-crafted, a testament to the superior quality of past manufacturing.
It explained why starships built thousands of years ago still roamed the galaxy. Quality, plain and simple.
Meanwhile, warships constructed less than thirty years ago, during the Clone Wars, were already obsolete, requiring rearmament, equipment upgrades, hull reinforcements, plating replacements, and new power units…
Progress marched forward in some areas, but in others, manufacturers' pragmatic approach—building for short-term use—prevailed. No wonder the Empire approached such matters meticulously, sparing no expense for quality equipment. Not always, but in most cases.
— My decision is simple, — the Noghri rasped. — My units return to the overclan. We acknowledge the dominion of Grand Admiral Thrawn.
— Excellent, — Captain Shteben slipped his arms into his jacket sleeves and squared his shoulders. Imperial uniforms were always comfortable and familiar. When your life was dedicated to service, little else mattered. — In that case, I'll need to contact the Grand Admiral, report the situation, and receive further orders.
— What of us? — the Noghri mewled.
Shteben, fastening his buttons, paused midway and frowned at his counterpart:
— Meaning?
— Our lord Thrawn invoked the ancient law, — the Noghri explained. — I and my soldiers are guilty too. Deception.
— Oh, that, — the captain resumed dressing, frantically thinking of a response that wouldn't plunge the Noghri into despair.
Formally, all Noghri were guilty of deceiving Thrawn, and they had already subjected their race to a public thrashing and self-flagellation. These ones had escaped that.
Factually, however, Thrawn assumed command of the Noghri shortly before the Battle of Hoth, when these units were already on Yalara. Thus, they hadn't deceived him—they were unaware of his existence or their oath to him.
They were guilty of withholding information from Vader about an ancient technological temple on their planet and other untainted regions. But did Thrawn care about their deception of Vader?
Likely not—it didn't affect his interests.
Yet with Thrawn, one could never be certain he wouldn't turn something to his advantage.
As the coordinator of Noghri combat groups, Captain Shteben could offer his opinion.
For instance, that these death commandos should be spared. For one simple reason—they were either better trained or more skilled than those currently under Thrawn's command. No jest—the Noghri were, without question, the finest saboteurs and assassins Shteben had ever encountered. Even the young recruits.
But these Yalaran Noghri had effortlessly subdued the "youngsters" without so much as a whimper. Did that speak to their superior professionalism compared to the current generation? Undoubtedly.
— I can't promise what the Grand Admiral will decide, — Shteben admitted. — But I assure you and your commandos that I'll do everything in my power to convey objective information about you, your units, and your professional merits.
— Thank you, — the Noghri mewled. — I will await your message and our lord's will. My commandos will teach your youngsters how to maintain the facility and dam. And we'll share what we know.
Shteben initially wanted to object—why bother? Thrawn was unlikely to order their execution; decimation was the probable punishment.
Then it dawned on him.
No one was safe from that punishment.
Any of these commandos could face death if such an order came. Their commander was doing what any honorable being would: ensuring their accumulated knowledge wouldn't die with them.
They had been on Yalara for ten years, knowing every detail of the cloaking facility—every entrance, exit, tunnel, gallery, cooling tower, and chamber. The commander had decided this knowledge must be passed to the next generation.
An act of unquestionable nobility. If Shteben faced a death sentence, he'd likely succumb to apathy, caring little about preserving his skills. But these Noghri…
The Imperial felt his usually comfortable jacket collar constrict.
A "primitive" people, weren't they? That's what many Imperial specialists on Honoghr had mocked. A biased view of a race that hadn't even ventured into space…
Shteben realized his colleagues were wrong.
Building starships or conquering the stars was mere technical progress, inevitable for all races in time.
But to uphold duty, honor, and the greater good over millennia, thinking not of oneself but of the majority…
Not every being was capable of that. In recent decades—perhaps longer—the galaxy's races had seen a sharp decline in heroic aspirations.
Shteben could only call these Yalaran Noghri heroes.
Such steadfast beings deserved to be remembered. And admired.
— You know, — the captain cleared his throat. — I think I should hear how things work here too.
***
Night was falling on Ciutric IV.
But, as everyone knew, in the city of fools, work was just beginning.
Switching off the holoprojector, I rose from my desk.
— Fleet status report, Captain Pellaeon, — I said, addressing the commander of my flagship.
Gilad, having witnessed my conversation with Captain Shteben, seemed to shake off a creeping drowsiness.
— All as usual, sir, — he replied. — We're using the Ciutric orbital repair yard to restore damaged ships. The Star Destroyers are repaired, and we're working on the trophies. I expect the fleet will be fully combat-ready by the end of the next day cycle.
— Good news, — I agreed. — The trophies?
— Repairs will begin only after our own ships are fully restored, — the Chimaera's commander reported. — The damage is extensive. However, the local yard and production facilities have sufficiently skilled workers to restore combat readiness. It will take time, though. We also need to tally the ships and form crews. Volunteers are plentiful, so I believe all Star Destroyer-class vessels will be operational within a month. The issue is appointing commanders…
— We have recommendations from the captains, — I reminded him. — That should suffice.
— Mostly… — Gilad rubbed his face. — Sir, may I ask a question?
— Of course, Captain, — I retrieved the necessary datacard from a stack on the shelf and returned to my desk, connecting it to the computer.
— Why did you order the preservation of all Noghri on Yalara?
— I care little for their omissions to Vader, — I explained. — They weren't serving me then. Besides, they understand their continued existence is an advance they must earn. Captain Shteben reported their skills surpass those of our current Noghri. We must leverage this advantage. Knowing their lives depend on my decision, the Yalaran Noghri will strive harder to prove their worth and justify the trust placed in them.
— But couldn't the same be done with the Honoghr Noghri? — Gilad pressed.
A rare question from an Imperial commander: "Could the mass slaughter of sentients have been avoided?" It added to Pellaeon's "humanity points" in these circumstances.
No matter the situation, when another option exists, one should always choose the lesser evil and avoid unnecessary bloodshed.
— Individual approach, Captain, — I clarified. — We've discussed this. Before I invoked the Noghri's ancient laws, there was no guarantee they would fully adhere to my orders. Sparing the Yalaran Noghri strengthens their loyalty and underscores that only loyalty to me matters. Beyond ruthless demands for obedience, their lord can also be merciful.
Pellaeon raised his gray brows but remained silent.
He would understand in time.
— Inform shipwright Zion that Crimson Dawn, Imperious, and the rest of the Red Star squadron must be ready for deployment as soon as possible, — I said. — Captain Shohashi has much work ahead in the coming weeks.
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon saluted. — Sir, what about the prisoners?
— Which ones? — I clarified.
— Those brought from Tangrene, — Gilad specified.
— Ah, those, — I smiled. — Have you ensured Princess Organa, General Calrissian, the Wookiee Chewbacca, their protocol droid, and Winter are comfortable aboard my flagship?
— Of course, sir, — Pellaeon replied as if it were obvious. — They've been housed in guest quarters previously occupied by Skywalker, Winter, and Bel Iblis. No information access, constant guard by stormtroopers and droidekas, and ysalamiri.
— Excellent, — I assured him. — Soon, another participant will join our negotiations. Ensure Jedi Skywalker is delivered to Ciutric IV by Commander Darron as quickly as possible.
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon nodded. — May I ask one more question?
— Of course, Captain.
— The observatory on Tangrene, — he began. — The one where they supposedly saw Ciutric IV's starfield. Was it actually useful? So much effort just to hold those prisoners… Honestly, I thought you'd let them escape heroically, pinning their capture on Prince-Admiral Krennel… But after your galaxy-wide announcement…
— Without a doubt, Captain, the false observatory served its purpose, — I confirmed. — It prevented our high-profile prisoners from knowing their true location. At the time, we had only one base and limited defenses. Had we not secured the Hegemony by their release, a New Republic fleet's arrival would have been highly inconvenient. Thanks to the instructions given to their transport's commander, they have no idea where they were held. They'll make guesses based on indirect clues, but those will be false. Arriving on Ciutric IV will convince them the observatory was a trap. They'll search for their true holding place and draw incorrect conclusions. The more questions the Republic has, the less clarity they possess, the less confident they feel. Moreover, we've shown our high-profile prisoners that we're not the Empire that fights with numbers over skill. The New Order's racial prejudices are behind us—at least for us. This will resonate with the New Republic's leadership. They haven't accepted my exchange ultimatum, so we'll use that against them.
— How, sir? — Pellaeon asked. — I'm correct that you deliberately avoided setting exchange deadlines to prolong their indecision?
— Precisely, Captain, — I confirmed. — The second phase of Operation Crimson Dawn is complete. The Hegemony is ours, with stable production and a personnel reserve. The high-profile prisoners will return home "thanks to one Jedi," allowing Luke Skywalker to draw the Emperor's agents' attention. Tomorrow, I'll address them all, conveying key truths and our stance. Before they return to Coruscant, the HoloNet will release additional data about our territories and informative broadcasts. This will attract settlers to bolster our state's internal policy and create a favorable image of Imperials who don't want war but are forced into it by the New Republic's imperialist ambitions and political persecution. We'll undermine their legitimacy, detaching wavering sectors and sowing doubt among their supporters.
— Sir, that could destroy the New Republic, — Pellaeon noted.
— I recall your warnings, Captain, — I tapped the datacard, drawing Gilad's attention. — As long as the New Republic has an enemy to unite against, most sectors will remain cohesive. With our forthcoming manifesto, we're a "thing in itself," attracting only a few enthusiasts and former Imperials. They'll scrutinize our words and actions. The New Republic won't exchange their prisoners for Galactic Empire technology because they don't trust us. Releasing the Alliance heroes will show the galaxy we're trustworthy. But the New Republic won't act—Operation Crimson Dawn's second phase taught them not to trust my actions' obviousness. They'll expect deceit in my offers and promises—we'll prove otherwise. This will create cognitive dissonance: their government's words will contradict their actions. That will free our hands for further military operations.
— But you said you wanted a truce with the New Republic, — Pellaeon reminded me.
— And I still do, — I confirmed. — The issue is they don't see us as equals. The third phase will change that. Only when they're broken, crushed, and view every operation as having deeper goals will they accept the inevitable: they cannot win this war. Other remnants might, but not our state. Then they'll come to us with a peace treaty, dictated by us from a position of strength and justified demands. They'll have to submit. As I've said, peace is valuable only when equals, not a weak side and a strong one, negotiate. Once we gain that weight, once sentients galaxy-wide see supporting the New Republic's madness as deadly, sectors will join us. For protection, stability, and prosperity.
— Alongside military strikes, we'll deliver political ones, — Gilad realized. But he didn't grasp everything.
— And ideological, — I clarified. — Wars of ideas and worldviews are the bloodiest but yield the greatest dividends to the victor.
— It's so complex, — Gilad massaged his temples.
— You'll learn, Captain, — I said. — Our priority is to reclaim what's ours, in the fullest possible measure. Then, survive Palpatine's attack. Unlike the Republic, we're prepared.
— But you warned them of what's coming, — Pellaeon said.
— Of course, Captain, — I allowed myself a smile. — But do you think, after all I've done and will do to the New Republic, they'll believe me?
Gilad, grasping the plan's scope, swallowed hard.
— Palpatine will sweep through the New Republic with fire and sword, — I predicted. — He'll raze cities, kill millions, if not billions. And when the time comes, — I tapped the datacard again, — sentients will realize democracy isn't the best defense against internal and external threats. Especially when it's revealed these democrats were warned of the catastrophe but did nothing to prevent or mitigate it.
— War against Palpatine will unite them; it's an existential threat, — Pellaeon countered.
— That's why sectors and systems that join us will be spared, — I explained. — In the postwar devastation, when grief over losses demands an outlet and culprits, we'll make our move. We'll care for those the Republic forgot while saving itself. Amid the fratricidal war following Palpatine's invasion, we'll be the voice of reason, guaranteeing order, — I drew Gilad's attention to the datacard again. — Order. And retribution for atrocities.
— Is that what I think it is? — the commander of my flagship tensed.
— Precisely, Captain Pellaeon, — I confirmed. — Mr. Ghent did excellent work. The Caamas Document's encryption is broken. The data is open and studied. In the postwar chaos, what Borsk Fey'lya recently did will pale before the ideological explosion this information will unleash on the New Republic's foundations.
— Does it list the Bothans involved in destroying Caamas's deflectors? — Pellaeon asked.
— Yes, — I confirmed.
— And… how many ruling clan members participated in that genocide? — Gilad shuddered, briefly imagining the execution of a Base-Delta-Zero order against the peaceful Caamasi's homeworld.
I allowed another smile. Gesturing for the captain to approach, I turned a monitor to display the list of perpetrators and clans for his comfortable review.
When his eyes reached the end, righteous fury froze on the Imperial captain's face.
— Those…! — Clenching his teeth, he balled his fists. — Furry bastards! Deceiving the galaxy all this time!
— You're mistaken in one thing, Captain, — I said, turning the monitor back. — The perpetrators aren't bastards. They're the most honorable sons and daughters of Bothawui's noble houses. Now we know how the Bothans bought near-autonomy from Imperial occupation during the Galactic Empire's reign. When the time comes, the galaxy will know too.
— They were right at the academy, — Pellaeon hissed. — Strike any Bothan; they're guilty regardless.
— And we'll make the Bothans the tauntauns of blame for the atrocities Palpatine and his cronies will unleash, — I said with a promising tone.
— The dream of billions will come true, — the Chimaera's commander said grimly.
— Yes, — I replied simply. — Bothawui will burn. To ashes. But later.